


The Distant Sun

by Green



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hopeful Ending, Implied Mates, Implied/Referenced Cannibalism, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:54:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25568566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Green/pseuds/Green
Summary: "You must be Peter," the boy says. He says it simply, but something resonates in the words, something Peter can't put his finger on."You have me at a disadvantage," Peter says.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 178
Kudos: 1057
Collections: Not to be misplaced, Steter Week 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For Steter Week - dystopia  
> unbeta'd.

The compound is gray (the world is gray) dotted by little fires here and there inside the perimeter. Peter sees them as he's forcibly walked in, sees the scattered groups huddled around them. He smells something like meat cooking, even through his dulled senses. His stomach clenches. 

Eyes are on him. Some look wary. Some hungry. One person laughs and calls him dinner. He's sure it's not a joke when another eyes him for meat.

"You're a good fighter," the leader says to Peter after the initial introductions.

Peter wants to rip his throat out. The only reason they got the drop on him is because Peter's starving. At full strength, he could have killed the entire scavenging group, torn them to pieces with fangs and claws. Instead, they beat him up and brought him to their compound, to be interrogated and worse.

(He's heard them talking about his _meat_. He knows what 'worse' is, in this situation.)

The leader's name is Samuel. He's younger than Peter, but probably not by much. He looks older though; the elements and lack of good nutrition have put lines on his face and gray in his hair long before his time.

Well, none of them are great beauties these days, are they? Especially right now. Peter's head is throbbing where he was knocked out, and he knows his face is marred by bruises and blood.

Samuel looks like he's expecting an answer. Peter narrows his eyes. He'd bare his teeth if he thought it would get him somewhere, but this leader doesn't seem to be the type to take a challenge in stride.

Instead, Peter nods. "I can hold my own."

"I could use a fighter like you."

Peter stays silent. 

Samuel laughs. "I'll give you a few days to think about joining us." He turns to the men holding Peter. "Take him to the cells. He can have water, but save the food."

* * *

Peter is silent and still in his cell. He's too weak to break the door. The cell is slightly larger than a cage, big enough to pace back and forth in if Peter was so inclined. As impatient and restless as the wolf is, though, he knows he has to conserve his energy. He needs to get _out_.

He's tired, but he doesn't dare sleep. He needs to wait for the right moment when he can escape. But perhaps resting his eyes, just for a few minutes, wouldn't hurt.

He doesn't mean to fall asleep, especially with his dulled senses. He doesn't know how long passes before he hears the footsteps.

When he does, he looks up, expecting Samuel to come to offer a deal. Or maybe he's changed his mind, and they'll kill and eat Peter tonight after all.

But it's not the leader who's come to visit. Instead, it's a skinny boy holding a small bag. 

"You must be Peter," the boy says. He says it simply, but something resonates in the words, something Peter can't put his finger on.

"You have me at a disadvantage," Peter says.

The boy flashes a smile, there and gone again, so fast Peter nearly misses it. "They call me Mischief."

"That's not a name," Peter says. He was too tired to stay awake just before, but he feels strangely energized now.

"Names have power," the boy (Peter's not going to call him Mischief, not even in his head) says.

Peter nods. It's true, but he doesn't expect a human boy to know it. He looks closer. Maybe the boy isn't human.

They stare at each other for a long moment, and then the boy sighs. "Call me Stiles. It's as close to a name as you're gonna get."

"Stiles," Peter says quietly, rolling the name on his tongue, testing how it fits in his mouth. But back to the matter at hand. "Why are you here?"

Stiles opens his bag and pulls out something small and greenish-gray. Peter's nostrils flare at the scent of food, and when Stiles thrusts the square between the bars, he has to fight to keep from snatching it without preamble.

He reaches out for it though, a tremble in his hand. He takes it and then, then he can bring it to his nose, smelling for poisons or drugs before taking a bite of it. The bittersweet taste of it would be off-putting on a day he wasn't starving. He doesn't care. He chews, chews, swallows. 

Peter tries to take small bites, to make it last, but he's so hungry and it's _food_.

"It's bark bread," Stiles says in a whisper. Like it's a secret. Hell, maybe it is. "I'm sorry I couldn't bring you better."

Peter finishes the last crumb, then licks his fingers in case there's some he missed. Then he looks at Stiles, who's been watching him the entire time. "Thank you. What do you want?" Because no one gives a stranger food without wanting something in return.

Lightning-quick smile. "When you get out of here, I want you to take me with you."

Peter tilts his head. "What makes you think I'm getting out of here?" he asks, all while trying to think faster than his words. He is barely surviving on his own. With a boy in tow, weighing him down and eating half of what meager food he can find, he'd fare even worse.

Stiles looks at him with a carefully blank expression. "I'll help you get out. But you keep me. That's the deal."

Peter makes a show of thinking. "You'll get me out?" he asks. He won't need help. Just more food, enough to make him strong again, and he'll get out on his own. He won't tell Stiles that. 

The boy's expression turns fierce. "Don't try to con me." He pulls another square of bark bread from his bag and throws it toward Peter. The kindness seems at odds with his words, his demeanor. Peter doesn't know what to think of him.

Footsteps approach and Stiles says, "Hide it."

Then the boy straightens. His eyes go dull, and suddenly he's like a different person. 

"Mischief," Samuel chides when he sees him. "What are you doing with our guest?"

Stiles doesn't react when Samuel puts a hand on his shoulder, except to say, "I was bringing water." Sure enough, he pulls a small, opaque bottle out of his bag. 

Samuel eyes Stiles as if evaluating him, but he's no werewolf who can smell lies. "Well, give it to him and get out."

Stiles's small-voiced, "Yes, Samuel," seems to appease the leader, as does how Stiles quickly does as he says.

Peter takes the bottle with a nod, then both men watch the boy scurry away.

"What did he say to you?" Samuel wants to know once Stiles is gone.

"Nothing," Peter denies.

"If he comes back, don't talk to him," Samuel says. His eyes are narrow now. "The boy is mine."

If Peter was in wolf form, his hackles would be up at that. He doesn't like the possessive glint in Samuel's eye combined with the expression that had been on Stiles's face.

Oh, Peter wants to goad him. He wants to poke at this particular thing until he learns more. But he knows better than to try in this situation. He's imprisoned at the moment, with nothing and no one at his back.

Once, he would have be able to say anything, because he had a pack behind him. People who protected him just as he protected them.

(He couldn't always protect them, not from the challenges of this world. Not from hunger, or the madness of others…)

He shies away from the years-old memories that still cut as deep as they did when they were fresh. He steels his heart, remembers the lessons his grandmother taught him, and looks Samuel in the eye. "Did you want something?"

"Just to talk," Samuel says with a false smile. It looks out of place on his lined face, as if the motion pulls against the natural setting of his skin. "I want to urge you to join us. You and I both know a lone man out there is more likely to die than someone with a clan."

'Clan' is what the humans call their groups, large and small, but it's too close to 'pack'. Peter could have sought out other werewolves. There were more surviving packs out there. It would have been the smartest thing to do. 

Samuel is still talking. "All I ask is that you fight with us. In return, you'll have a warm bed and food in your belly."

The fact that he doesn't try to sell the comradery of a group means he doesn't understand people as well as he thinks. Right now Samuel is holding onto his clan with the promise of food and warmth. He can't have been in his position long, and soon a more charismatic leader will emerge to woo his people with the promise of _family_. At least, that's what Peter would do, if he wanted to take over.

"You haven't shown me you can provide either, yet," Peter says.

Samuel laughs. "You're either shrewd or just starving, I don't know which. Fine, I'll have someone bring you a blanket and… hot food. How does that sound?"

"What do you want in return?" Peter asks. His mind is already telling him the 'hot food' will be meat of mysterious origin, not something he really wants to think about.

"Just think about my proposition."

Peter nods. "It doesn't hurt me to think about it, I suppose."

Samuel grins. Is he trying to look friendly? It's not working. "I'll give you three days."

Peter doesn't ask what happens if he doesn't take the offered place in the clan. The meat in the stew has to come from somewhere.

Samuel walks away without additional comment. Peter looks down at the bottle Stiles gave him. He opens the cap and sniffs. It's not water. It smells sweet and herbal, like a tea Deaton made him once after he got into a fight with a grizzly bear. 

The liquid coats his tongue as he takes the first sip. It's not delicious, but its honeyed sweetness almost masks the bitterness of the herbs. It's exactly the same as the potion Deaton gave him. Nutrients and vitamins derived from plants he should know the name of.

Did Stiles make it himself, and if so, how did he get the recipe?

Peter sits back after finishing the bottle's contents, thinking. Who is Stiles, really? He doesn't seem like a fighter, and he's too young to be an advisor. Peter's gums itch at the thought that he's Samuel's bedwarmer, though that would explain why Stiles wants to get away.

But surely he's had opportunities to do so before now. Why ask Peter? And why did he use the words he did?

_"...you keep me."_ Stiles said.

What does that mean?

Peter doesn't have much time to think. Someone — another clan member — brings food and a blanket. She doesn't stay long enough to see if Peter eats the food, or even long enough to accept a thank you. 

Peter drapes the thin blanket over his legs and sniffs the food. It's some kind of meal in hot water, but Peter's had thinner gruel and he's just grateful it isn't stew. He doesn't have much left in this world, but he's held onto one or two morals. He doesn't eat people.

He finishes the food and closes his eyes. He can feel his energy returning slowly. He still can't shift, but soon he might be able to run, given the chance.

* * *

It's late when Stiles returns. Peter hears him coming sooner this time, his senses sharpening.

"I can't stay long," Stiles says, poking a hand through the bars. "Here."

"What is it?" Peter asks, though his mouth is already watering. "More bark bread?" It's dark and he can't see what he takes, but it's the wrong texture for bread. It's light, though. Maybe some kind of jerky?

"I made it. Meat, fat, berries. I have more for our trip," Stiles says.

Peter takes a bite. It's a strange texture, but not bad to the taste. Savory with a little sweet. It's very dry, but Peter doesn't care. It's food, the kind of food that can get him back to full strength. 

"Are you warm enough?" Stiles asks.

Peter swallows before answering. "I run hot. I'm fine."

Stiles purses his lips and nods. "I brought more tea."

"Where did you learn to make this?" Peter asks. 

"A book," Stiles says.

Peter bites back his instinctive question of, _You can read?_

Stiles seems to hear it anyway. He smiles sharply. "I'm more than just a pretty face." He hands Peter another bottle.

This time, Peter doesn't smell it first, just downs the lukewarm 'tea' while thinking.

He hears Stiles's heartbeat now. It's fast, erratic, and for a moment Peter thinks that's fear-induced. Peter looks closely at the boy, but there's no other sign. Just clear eyes and a curious expression. 

"Is the tea helping?" Stiles asks, then answers his own question. "Your bruises are gone."

Peter nods. Then says, "Samuel won't keep me for long. We don't have much time."

"And you need more food," Stiles says. 

"I'm afraid I'll need more than bark bread if I'm going to have the energy to fight my way out of here." He was hoping he could at least shift to his beta form.

Stiles shakes his head. "We don't need the energy to fight, we need it to run."

"How do we get out if it's not through fighting?" Peter asks.

Stiles gives him a lightning-quick smile. It's not a nice smile, and it's accompanied by the scent of petrichor. "Leave that to me. I have a distraction lined up."

Peter leans closer. He can't get as close as he wants. The bars don't permit it. But there's something about Stiles. Now that Peter's senses are sharper, he's beginning to see the boy in a different light. Or rather, smell him.

It's not the earthy, stone-and-moss scent of a druid. Not the herbal smoke-and-cuttings scent of a witch. This is pure magic, and Peter's only scented it once before, on a visiting family with a small child who Deaton called Little Spark.

And with that ozone-magic-Spark scent is something else, something Peter can't identify yet. All he knows is that he wants to pull the boy closer and take deep, pleasing huffs of his scent until it's etched clearly in his mind. His wolf wants to know it, to be able to identify it anywhere. To imprint it deeply so they can never lose track of the boy.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Stiles asks.

Peter backs away from the bars and silently curses his wolf. With the increase in his energy and senses has come a stronger instinct, as his wolf awakens again, and Peter's become complacent in starvation mode. He hasn't had to control his wolf in a long time, not like this. 

Some might think a starving werewolf would be an angry, wild thing. But Peter chose to push the wolf to sleep instead, to keep from having to deal with the possibility of going insane. Peter lost control once, when he felt pack bonds snap and rushed back from a scouting trip to find his pack burned beyond recognition. For weeks, he was a feral, raging animal. He is not going back to that.

"Are you okay?" the boy asks. He sounds genuinely concerned, so the expressions on Peter's face must be terrible. 

Peter nods. "Just remembering something," he manages to say. He blinks and turns away before he feels wetness trail down past his cheeks into the stubble on his jaw. He hopes Stiles doesn't ask what he's remembering. 

But Stiles just nods and changes the subject. "I'll be back in the morning with more food, when I can slip away. They should feed you more of the porridge, too." He looks at the blanket, now discarded in the corner of Peter's cell. "You should try to stay warm. I know you think you don't need it, but you're using energy you can't spare to keep yourself from freezing."

"What are _you_ using?" Peter asks, pointing his chin at Stiles's meager clothing, though 'clothes' is a generous name for the rags the boy is wearing.

Stiles's lips curve. "Pure spite."

He's magical, possibly powerful, and smart enough to pick Peter as his way out of a bad situation. To have survived this long, he has had to be clever. Maybe he's not so bad a choice of an ally after all. 

"I have to get back," Stiles says. "Conserve your energy. Get some more sleep." And then he's gone, slipping away faster than Peter can follow with his eyes.

* * *

In his waking hours, Peter doesn't think of his pack much. It's too painful, too raw even after these years. He can't control his dreams, however. 

Talia is waiting for him when he sleeps this time, and she's smiling. Laughing at him for something, and Peter feels embarrassment, though he's not sure why. Laura joins her. Laura, so much like her mother, but never given the chance to grow out of Talia's shadow. A life cut short, burned away.

In the dream, the bonds are still there, the closest thing to pure sunlight they've ever known. Golden beams of connection, light from one to another, then bundled and tangled up inside their chests to give them each their own personal sun. 

But then the dream changes and Peter's memory supplies the rest. So many lights, like a constellation in an old-world myth, extinguished completely, one by one. They'd burned bright, calling out to each other for a scant few moments, before they died. A supernova of love and agony.

Peter gasps awake, claws grasping at his chest, tearing his clothes and skin, drawing blood before he can stop himself. He snarls, and the wolf wants to howl out the grief and pain. He holds off, just barely, and puts his hands at his sides. He wills the change away and tries to focus on his anchor. It's been a nebulous thing lately and he hasn't had to use it much because of his energy levels, but now that he's stronger, he needs it more than ever.

Behind his eyelids, it is dark. As dark as the hole, the crater, of broken bonds in his chest. He tries to envision the triskele, the _alphabetaomega_ spirals, but it just makes him ache more.

"Peter?" His name is uttered just above a whisper.

His eyes snap open and focus on Stiles. He can't be older than seventeen or eighteen, though he looks even younger due to his stunted growth and short-cropped hair. His expression is open, curious, worried. Peter shifts his eyes to see better in the dim light and focuses on Stiles's face. Stiles swears and looks at the cell door, then somehow — he doesn't have the key, does he? — opens it so that it swings soundlessly on its hinges.

"You're bleeding." 

Peter looks down at his chest. "I'm healing."

Stiles purses his lips, and Peter can practically feel his disapproval. "Who did this?"

Peter doesn't answer in words, just brings a bloody hand up to touch his chest. The claws are gone now, melted away once Stiles arrived, but there's blood beneath his blunt, human nails.

Stiles looks at him shrewdly. "Bad dream?"

Peter shrugs. "We all have them, don't we?"

For just a moment, Stiles's face goes hard, closed off, and his scent is bitter. Yes, Stiles knows all about nightmares.

He doesn't comment on it again, though. "I brought more food. Salted meat — elk, I think. More pemmican, too. And I made more of the strengthening tea."

"Where did you get all this?" Peter asks.

"I've been putting things away since the old man died," Stiles says. Peter doesn't know how the 'old man' is, but he can guess he was a leader or protector before Samuel.

"Biding your time?" Peter asks.

Stiles nods. "We leave tonight. Be ready."

"How long is that?" Peter needs to know. It's always dim in his cell, and the moon is close to new so he can't go by its pull. 

"About eight more hours," Stiles says. "You'll know."

"How?" Peter asks.

Stiles grins. His teeth gleam as bright as his eyes. "My distraction. It's gonna be _explosive_."

Then he reaches out and touches Peter's shoulder. If Stiles was a wolf, Peter would recognize it as scent marking. Since he's just human, Peter tries to puzzle it out. Comfort? Support? He hasn't been touched without harmful intent in so long he doesn't know how to categorize it.

"See you then," Stiles says, withdrawing his hand.

Peter nods. "Be careful."

Stiles smiles sharply, then backs out of the cell. He pulls the door closed, glancing at the lock. "I'm going to make it look locked. It won't be."

"Illusion?" Peter asks. 

Stiles just wiggles his fingers in response. Some kind of magic, then. Maybe Peter will keep him around for a bit, just until he figures him out. If they can pull off this escape, that is.

* * *

Shadows fall heavily all around him as the sun — that elusive, clouded force in the sky — goes down outside. The air turns colder, and Peter huddles under his thin blanket. His meal — a gray, cold paste — comes a short time after, and Peter chokes it down. He needs every bit of energy he can get.

Samuel visits then. "You don't have much time left. Have you decided yet?" The candle he holds only serves to accentuate the premature lines on his face.

The scent of Stiles and blunt misery hangs thick on Samuel as if he's been rolling in it, and Peter is tempted to kill him now. He wonders if Stiles's plan would be ruined by a little murder. Peter could justify it: with the leader out of the way, the scavenger clan wouldn't be able to come together quickly enough to chase Peter and Stiles after their escape.

"I'm digesting my gruel right now. I think it was made of old paper," Peter says. "You're not really selling the hot food and warm bed right now, are you?"

"You aren't stupid," Samuel says."You know what will happen if you refuse to join us. What is taking so long?" His frustration is palpable and Peter has to hide his smirk.

"Yes, why would I be hesitant to join a group of cannibals and rapists?" Peter asks dryly. "It's so mysterious."

Samuel rears back as if slapped. Then he sneers. "You think you're better than me? Morals are a lie, more old-world bullshit. Survival is the only rule left. You haven't learned that? You're going to die."

"Then I'll die with a clear conscience," Peter says lightly.

"You'll be too busy screaming to care about that," Samuel promises. It's so cliché, like a villain's speech lifted off the pages of Derek's tattered comic books.

Peter smiles blandly, though the memory of his nephew rears up to cause fresh pain. 

Samuel must see something in his eyes and mistakes it for fear. He laughs and walks away, leaving Peter to wonder how much time is left.

* * *

Peter waits, and waits, straining his ears for any whisper of Stiles's distraction. When it finally comes, it's clearly audible and shakes everything, from the ground beneath him to the back wall he's propped against. It's a matter of seconds before Stiles comes tearing down the hall toward his cell, and Peter's already up and out of the unlocked door to meet him.

Stiles smells like an oncoming storm, and the air around him is heavy with magic. Peter wonders to himself, does Stiles even know how powerful he is? He could flatten the compound if he knew how. 

Peter doesn't have to ask what's next. He follows Stiles down the dark hall, past empty cells, to a door that looks like it's part of the brickwork, it's been closed so long. Peter goes first, and Stiles touches his back to guide him through. Peter doesn't comment. Again, he's struck with the thought that he hasn't been _touched_ in years, not kindly, not even in a neutral way. Partly because he's shied away from others, a choice he made over a long period of grieving.

"Keep going," Stiles murmurs behind him. Something clicks and then there's a blueish light coming from Stiles's hand from a weak flashlight. Peter shifts his eyes, so that the meager light is enough to illuminate the corridor and keep him from falling over the old chairs and cabinets lining the way out.

"Where does this go?" Peter asks, straining so he can hear the scavengers running above their heads. "What is this?"

"Samuel doesn't even know why the old man made the base here," Stiles says derisively. He slows by one door. "Wait right here a minute." Then he opens the door and disappears into the room, taking the flashlight with him. It doesn't take him long, whatever he does. He's back out with a large duffel bag in less than the minute he asked for. "Okay. Let's speed it up."

Peter almost asks if he can carry the bag. It looks heavy. But Stiles straps it up to his back before Peter can offer, and then they're moving even faster than before.

They take a sharp left turn, Stiles seemingly looking up at the pipes to chart their progress. Peter smells rust and rotting paper, but always there's the scent of Stiles, spicy-heavy-heady-sweet. Brewing magic, the promise of freedom, and something even more precious at the end of a long journey. 

"Up the stairs," Stiles tells him, and then they're climbing up to a flat double door, chained and fastened with a thick padlock that Stiles has a key for. 

The doors creak loudly with disuse when Stiles opens them. Peter goes still and wary, waiting to see if someone will detect them, but Stiles grabs him around the wrist and urges him, "Move. Move!"

There is the noise of others, but it's far away now. They must have moved farther while underground than Peter thought. His feet drag at first, but then he's falling into the same swift rhythm as Stiles as they run for their freedom. He has the thought that Stiles won't be able to keep pace if he runs full-out, but soon it's he who is struggling to keep up as Stiles uses an inner reserve Peter never suspected. He didn't think of this but he should have. Stiles is full to the brim with magic, and he may not know what to do with it in all contexts, but he can do this. He's panting now, and Peter can smell his sweat, but they stay within arm's length of each other as they run on.

They run until all Peter can hear is their heartbeats thudding in their chests and their heavy breath rising and falling together. They run until Stiles begins to stumble and make distressed sounds. Magic may give him the energy to move fast, but it can't make his heart and lungs keep up forever, can't keep the blood pumping the right amount of oxygen to his limbs.

"It's okay. Walk it off," Peter says. "Hand over your bag and let me carry it for a while."

"No," Stiles pants. He waves weakly at Peter. "I'm comin'."

"Stiles," Peter says. Just that.

But the boy is _stubborn_. He repositions his duffel on his back and keeps going. Much more slowly than the magic-enhanced run, but a brisk hike. "We need to get at least to the river."

"How much farther is that?" Peter asks. "What happens when we get to the river?"

Stiles shrugs. 

"Enlightening, Stiles, really," Peter grumbles.

Stiles stops in his tracks so he can look at Peter head-on. "There's a vehicle stashed nearby, but I can't find it unless I follow the river."

"Where did it come from?"

"My parents left it hidden there."

Peter rocks back. "How do you know it's still there? How long ago was this?"

Stiles goes back to hiking down a trail only he can see. "It's there."

"A working vehicle?" Peter says incredulously. 

"It's a Jeep," Stiles says with a flash of teeth. He would make a magnificent wolf if he wasn't already something else.

Peter nods and listens, straining his ears for anything that sounds like water. Stiles seems to know where he's going, probably using his magic without a second thought to it. That, or he's been tracing this route in his mind for years, waiting for his chance to get away from the scavenger clan.

But then Peter thinks, why does Stiles need him? He could have done this without anyone else. Could have followed the tunnel out, could have run on magic, alone and unfettered by a companion. It's what Peter would have done. So why did Stiles wait until Peter was around to escape?

_Keep me_ , Stiles said on that first day. Why?

Peter's thoughts are interrupted by the sound of water rushing ahead of them. The river. Stiles is smiling triumphantly; he must know they're close. Maybe he can hear it, too. 

Just as they reach the water, the unseen, distant sun brightens the sky through the clouded horizon. Stiles turns his face toward it as if it's beautiful, and Peter has a moment of… peace. Of rightness. 

"One day the sun will peek right through the dust and ash to shine on us again," Stiles says. 

The lack of cynicism is stunning and makes Peter go still, silent. But on the heels of the shock comes a memory.

Stiles's smile is wry. "You must think I'm awfully young. Naive." 

"My grandmother said the same to me once," Peter says. "She was neither young nor naive."

Stiles nods slowly. He doesn't push for more, but now that Peter's started, he doesn't stop.

"She was born in the old world. She said the pictures didn't do the sunrise justice." She'd been very old. Talia said she was foolish, but Peter always believed her. When she said the sun would return, that the moonlight would shine on wolves again, he recognized the truth. She also shared a mantra she'd learned once: "Three things cannot be long hidden: the sun, the moon, and the truth." He doesn't realize he says the words aloud until Stiles answers him.

"How long is long, I wonder?"

"I'm not sure," Peter says. "Relative to the age of the earth, maybe."

Stiles laughs, his breath a visible mist in the cold air. Looking closer, Peter sees goosebumps on the boy's arms.

"We need to find shelter, to rest and eat," Peter says.

"I know," Stile mutters, looking back toward the murky water. Then he starts walking again, this time along the riverbank, slow and careful so he doesn't lose his footing. "Not much further."

Peter feels like he's always following Stiles now. He finds he doesn't really mind.

"If you can, you should catch us some fish for dinner. That way we're not using our stores," Stiles says.

Peter eyes the duffel bag. It can't hold much in the way of 'stores'. "It doesn't look like much."

"Deceptively small and light," Stiles says. He looks over his shoulder and grins. "Like me."

Stiles doesn't look that small, though he's like other humans in this world, and half the supernatural creatures, too: stunted by the ongoing famine. In another life, Stiles might be the same height or taller than Peter. He has long, delicate fingers, indicating someone who could, with the right nutrition, grow tall.

"How old are you, Stiles?" Peter asks, frowning at the river.

"The last time I got to celebrate my birthday, I was eleven," Stiles says. He smirks when Peter thinks that's all the answer he'll get. "Almost seven years ago."

It's not easy to find fish, but Peter manages to catch one — just one, though, and it almost got away. It's not very big, either. When he shows it to Stiles, he gets a genuine smile.

"That'll work. There's some blackberry bushes up ahead."

That's when Peter starts suspecting that one of Stiles's powers is finding food. His mouth waters at the thought of berries with his fish. 

The Jeep is hidden well in a garage, doors hidden by branches and vines. Stiles smells like sadness when he uncovers it. They don't attempt to check it over yet. They're both hungry and cold, so they build a fire, deeming it safe enough to do so now that they've put a lot of distance between themselves and the scavenger compound. They do it all without talking, both of them seeming to know what the other wants. Then they cook the fish, which has more meat on it than it initially looked like. 

Once they're fed — a veritable feast of fish and foraged greens and berries — they huddle side by side next to the fire, and Peter carefully doesn't look into the flame.

"So, where are we headed?" Peter asks.

Stiles leans against him. "West. California."

"That must be hundreds of miles away," Peter says with a frown.

"Good thing we have the Jeep."

"Gasoline doesn't last forever, if we can find any at all. We don't know if it'll run. Or even start."

"It will," Stiles says. Just like that. 

"What's in California?" Peter asks.

Stiles shrugs and doesn't answer.

Peter huffs. "Okay, Mr. Cryptic. I guess it won't hurt to go west."

"Thank you," Stiles whispers, pressing a little harder against Peter's side. Seeking warmth or showing appreciation, Peter can't tell. 

Either way, it's nice.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little addition I wrote.

Peter doesn't know why he's so surprised when Stiles pulls out a taped-together road map of the United States; Stiles has proven he's equipped and ready for this trip enough times already. He doesn't know how to drive, though. 

Peter doesn't wait for him to ask for a lesson, just starts explaining it all on the second day. He's already noticed Stiles watching him, his hands and feet, as he drives. Trying to figure it out.

It's not easy giving up an advantage, but Stiles needs to know how to drive his own Jeep. Together, they figure out Roscoe (Stiles names the Jeep, not Peter) grinds in second and needs new brake pads. It only takes three towns to find what they need.

"You know what you're doing there?" Stiles asks when Peter installs them.

Luckily, there are instructions in the box and what isn't explicitly stated, Peter can figure out. He's grateful he worked on the pack's old Camaro. 

Gasoline isn't as easy to find as a part. Peter worries about that because the Jeep has to be running on fumes at this point. Stiles doesn't seem as concerned.

"I've got this," he says with a wink that wouldn't have been there a week ago.

He's so much more confident and outgoing, and he talks so much more now than at the beginning.

Peter narrows his eyes. "Are you using magic to keep the Jeep running?"

Stiles looks shifty. "I just convinced Roscoe he didn't need as much as he thought he did. That's all."

There's something disturbing about that sentence. 

"Don't look like that. It's not that big a deal," Stiles says.

"I didn't say anything," Peter says.

"Maybe it's magic," Stiles concedes.

Peter snorts but doesn't hide his smile.

Turns out, Stiles doesn't know much about using his magic. Peter can tell he's powerful, can practically feel the level of magic emanating from the boy, especially when he's emotional. Part of him wants to stick around just to see what happens once Stiles finally figures it out. Another part tells him he'll get hurt when Stiles finally explodes one of these days.

"Why are we going to California?" Peter asks after they've been on the road for four days and Stiles has relaxed around him.

Stiles bites his lip and keeps his eyes on the road. "When I was a kid, I went. There was something there, and I want to find it again."

The kid is almost as enigmatic as the pack's old emissary, Deaton, and like Deaton, getting a complete answer out of him (that makes sense) is nigh impossible.

"Do you know what the thing is?" Peter asks.

"Sort of," Stiles says.

Peter can be patient. He's not frustrated. 

Stiles takes a breath like he's going to say more, then doesn't. Like he changed his mind. 

"It'll be dark soon," Peter says once it's clear he won't be getting more out of the boy tonight. "Let's find a place to camp."

"Or I could keep driving," Stiles says. "Or we could switch off?"

"We still have a lot of road ahead of us, and who knows what we'll run into. It's good to stay rested while we can," Peter says.

Stiles sighs. "Fine," he says, in a huff, as if he's not ready to fall asleep at the wheel. Peter's been watching. The boy is exhausted.

Peter looks at the tattered map. They're somewhere in the midwest now, where there's lots of open land and plenty of places to camp. Stiles drives down a side road Peter didn't even see and finds a perfect spot within minutes. Peter doesn't know if it's magic or instinct that makes it possible for Stiles to find it. He remembers an old-world saying that his grandmother explained once. He's never gotten a horse for a gift — he's never even seen a real horse — but he does know better than to look under Roscoe's hood, or to peer too closely at Stiles's abilities when they've kept them safe, warm, and fed. So far.

They have a tent, picked up on the second day, and Peter puts it up without asking. It doesn't fit two _comfortably_ , but the nights are cold and they basically sleep on top of each other anyway. 

It was awkward on the first night, but they pushed that aside quickly enough.

By the time the tent is up, a fire is already flickering, and Stiles is making something in a small pot — probably some salty stew made of dried meat and possibly some wild greens.

Peter sits beside him in front of the fire and extends his hands. It gets cold fast once the light goes away at night. His fingers are already feeling too-cold and stiff. 

"We need to hunt soon," Stiles says. "We're not out of supplies yet, but we're uncomfortably low."

"No problem," Peter says. This part of the country is full of smaller animals like rabbits and squirrels, easy pickings for a werewolf. 

Stiles doesn't say thank you, but he rests his head against Peter's shoulder. It's something he's been doing more and more. It's innocent enough that Peter doesn't stop it, but it's pack behavior. Peter's wolf is starting to see Stiles as pack, and Peter isn't sure yet how he feels about that.

"Penny for your thoughts," Stiles says.

"My grandmother used to say that," Peter says wistfully. She actually kept old pennies, as worthless as they were, as curiosities. Peter left her penny jar behind when the pack was killed. He hadn't taken much at all. Nothing of importance was left.

"My mom and dad did, too," Stiles says quietly.

Peter wants to know what happened, but he also knows the pain of thinking about that kind of loss, let alone talking about it. He hasn't told anyone about the attack on his pack, or how everything good in his life had been burned away. Maybe even everything good in him, period.

"I don't mind if you ask," Stiles says, seeming to read Peter's mind. "I don't expect reciprocation." He pours some 'stew' into a light tin cup for Peter. "It's hot, be careful."

Peter takes the cup and nods. It nearly burns his hands to hold the cup, but his hands are so cold that he welcomes it. "Thank you."

He waits awhile before drinking his soup. It's salty, just like he expected, but it's not bad. He's lucky to even have food. He's lucky to have all he has, really. Stiles especially.

"I'm glad I didn't leave you at the river," Peter murmurs, pressing closer.

Stiles shakes slightly with silent laughter. "You wouldn't have gotten rid of me that easily."

"Oh? Would you have chased after me?" Peter asks, amused at the thought.

"Tied you up and put you in the back of the Jeep," Stiles says easily, as if he really did have that plan.

Maybe he did. Peter is starting to realize he shouldn't underestimate the boy.

They finish their stew without speaking more, but once they're done, Stiles looks at him expectantly. 

Peter knows what he's waiting for, but he's not sure he wants to dredge up Stiles's bad memories just to appease his own curiosity. But Stiles seems to _want_ to talk about it.

Stiles must get impatient because he starts to talk before Peter can ask the biggest question.

"You don't remember me, do you?" Stiles asks

Peter blinks. "No? Should I?"

"When I was a kid, we stayed with your pack for a short time," Stiles says, shocking Peter somewhat. 

He shakes his head. Peter has no recollection of this. "Explain? How long ago?"

"I was about eight or nine," Stiles says. "My dad was wary of being around werewolves at first, but my mom was fascinated."

"What were their names?" Peter asks, thinking that might jar his memory. 

"John and Claudia Stilinski," Stiles says, and Peter feels a spark of recognition. 

"I don't really remember them, but then again, I was often gone. I think I'd remember a Stiles, though," Peter says.

Stiles wets his lips. "I was just Mietek then."

Peter closes his eyes and tries to take himself back in time without feeling the grief that comes with it. "Deaton called you 'Little Spark'."

"You remember?" Stiles asks.

"Just that much. Your family was Deaton's responsibility. his guests. I remember not wanting your family to come to us because it was dangerous to expose ourselves that way. I remember your parents mostly kept to themselves."

Stiles nods. "And I spent most of my time with Deaton. He trained me, or tried to. A little. I was young and he had no experience teaching children. He told me to go somewhere else to get a better education, but-" He cuts himself off and sighs.

"Did you recognize me in the compound?" Peter asks. "Is that why you helped me escape?" 

"I recognized you," Stiles says slowly, as if measuring his words. "But mostly from some dreams I kept having."

"Are you clairvoyant?" Peter asks.

Stiles shrugs. "I don't know anything about that. Maybe I am."

"Are we headed to the place Deaton told you to go for training?" Peter asks. "Is that what's in California?"

Stiles shakes his head. "No, it's something else."

"You're infuriating," Peter mutters. He wishes he could get a straight answer out of the boy, but he's as mysterious as he is charmingly attractive.

And maybe, deep down, Peter appreciates not knowing everything about Stiles. It keeps things interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure if I'll keep adding to this or not.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *throws chapter into the void and runs*

Regular meals, good sleep, and a fledgling pack bond are enough to make Peter feel strong again. In fact, he feels better than he has in years. He's not sure how to feel about this, though. The survivor's guilt is still strong.

He stays quiet about how he's feeling, never one to really bare his heart or thoughts to someone else, no matter how close. And he's still wary of Stiles in certain moments. Not usually, but… sometimes.

Stiles is more powerful than he knows himself. Peter can smell it, and sometimes even feel it. It emanates from the boy, an aura of brilliance and danger. Peter wants to get closer to it, even knowing it could end him.

He's been through a lot. They both have. They both grieve, though they keep it to themselves. Peter is curious about how Stiles ended up with Samuel, or the 'old man' he's referred to who came before Samuel. But Peter knows better than to pry. He has his own grief, his own demons. He knows if Stiles wants him to know, he'll tell him. But until Stiles willingly talks about it, Peter will leave it alone.

It would be nice to know why they're going to California, though.

"Tell me about the dreams you had," Peter asks him on the seventh day. Stiles has said they're close to their destination, and Peter's not sure what happens once they're there. If Stiles will decide he no longer needs a companion.

Stiles's eyes glow in the light of the campfire as he stares into it. _Beautiful_ , Peter thinks. But Stiles is preoccupied. Something's on his mind. Peter wants to tease it out. Maybe he can.

"They helped me get through stuff, when Samuel had me," Stiles says quietly. "Knowing the situation wasn't permanent was… good. Kept me going."

"The dreams started then, when Samuel took over?" Peter asks.

"No. I always had them. Well, since my parents…" He trails off without voicing his parents' end. Peter can understand that, anyway.

"How did they start?" Peter asks. "Were they always the same?"

Stiles shakes his head without looking at him. "No. No, I dreamed of you. Of your capture, and our escape."

Peter wants to shake the boy until more information comes out, but he knows he has to be patient. So he waits for Stiles to say more, watching his face.

Stiles finally turns his head and gives him a slight smile. "I dreamed of this, too."

"Talking?" Peter asks.

"All of it. The fire, the food. Sharing space and telling you things. I even dreamed of what you are wearing."

Peter found some 'new' clothes in the last empty town they passed through. He looks down at the cardigan and jeans. "This?"

Stiles laughs. "When I was younger, I thought it looked ridiculous. Your deep v-necks."

Peter raises an eyebrow and suddenly can smell Stiles's embarrassment. "Oh?"

"Now it's not so bad," Stiles says. 

The attraction isn't anything new — Stiles has been smelling like it for days. It's only gotten stronger, really, and Peter wishes he knew what was going on in the boy's head.

"Did you dream of anything else? Our future?"

"I dreamed of the tree," Stiles says. "It's how I know where we're going. And I dreamed—" He cuts himself off, then shivers.

"Come here," Peter says. Stiles gives him a wary look, but Peter just lifts his arm. "You'll be warmer if you're closer to me."

"Or I could just scoot closer to the fire," Stiles mutters, but instead of doing so, he moves closer to Peter and allows him to put an arm around his shoulders.

"We'll enjoy the fire better like this, anyway," Peter says.

Stiles doesn't answer except to cuddle against Peter's side.

"Now. Something is obviously on your mind," Peter says. "And I know you don't like to share everything, but maybe this is something I can ease your worry over."

Stiles swallows. Sighs. "We'll get there tomorrow."

"The tree you mentioned?" Peter asks carefully.

"Yes, but. We won't be alone anymore. There are others there, and I guess…"

"Are you worried about them? Will we have to fight?" Peter asks.

"No, nothing like that," Stiles says. He rubs his head against Peter like a cat. Peter wonders if he realizes what he's doing. It's possible he's been without a kind touch for so long that he is craving it. So Peter brings his hand up and pets his head. 

"What's it like, then?" Peter asks.

"You said you'd keep me. You promised," Stiles whispers. 

"That's our deal, yes," Peter says.

"You won't break it if you meet someone else, will you?" Stiles asks quietly.

Peter is unsure what to say, so he simply tells the truth. "You've saved me. Not just from the scavengers, but from myself. You have no idea how low I was when I was captured. I had no reason, nothing keeping me alive but my own stubbornness. And now I have…" He's afraid to say the word.

"What?"

"Pack," Peter breathes. "You're pack."

Stiles picks his head up and looks into his eyes. "I know that's a lot, but.. you could find other people to be pack with."

"Why would I want them when I have you?" Peter asks. "You're brilliant and powerful and blindingly gorgeous."

"You shouldn't say that," Stiles says, but his eyes are bright and his cheeks pink.

"I shouldn't tell the truth?" Peter asks. "You're special to me, Stiles. Even if I did join a pack, even if somehow I found a group worthy — which I doubt — you'd always come first."

"It's too early to be making declarations like that," Stiles says. "You barely know me."

"I know enough," Peter says. "My wolf knows you. Recognizes you."

At some point in their conversation, Peter took Stiles's hand. Now, Stiles is squeezing tight as if his life depends on it. "What does that mean?" he asks.

Peter smiles wolfishly. "It means you're mine. I'm keeping you, with or without the deal."

Stiles gasps softly and Peter stares at his parted lips. He has to kiss the boy, claim him in that small way. He's just not sure of his welcome. 

"I want to kiss you," Peter says. "Is that something you might want, too?"

Stiles's eyes widen and he nods. 

Peter smiles. "Is now a good time?" he says, or tries to say, because suddenly Stiles is kissing _him_ like he's hungry or drowning or similarly desperate. He holds tight to Peter's hand while the other slides into Peter's hair to pull him closer.

Stiles moans, gasps, wriggles closer. Peter wraps his arms around Stiles and tries to slow him down, gentle him somehow, but Stiles seems overcome with the need to kiss Peter within an inch of his life.

So Peter relaxes into it and lets him.

**Author's Note:**

> I might write more but probably not.


End file.
